


blue is the most human color

by Frival



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cold War, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Hanahaki Disease, Hetalia Countries Using Human Names, Historical Hetalia, Hurt No Comfort, Kinda, Lovers To Enemies, Lovers to enemies to lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, One-sided pining, Past Relationships, Pining, Post-Cold War, RusAme, Self-Hatred, Some Fluff, for like awhile, ivan was an asshole and he knows it, lmao only at the end, lots of to lovers tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28683375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frival/pseuds/Frival
Summary: daisies have never been so horrifically beautifulRusame Secret Santa 2020 (spring-has-come on Tumblr), for nppk (nppk on Tumblr, @a_nppk on Instagram)You can find me on Instagram (@a.frival) and Tumblr (afrival)
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	blue is the most human color

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, nppk! I’m your secret santa for this year : ) My name’s Frival or Ken/Kennedy, and I’m pretty new to the Hetalia fandom. This is my first time taking part in anything like this; I am very very excited that I got to be a part of this event this year.  
> Unfortunately, I am not done with the fic, but I will be updating it. It will have three chapters; I just wanted to make sure I got something out for the secret santa lol.  
> The song that inspired this fic was SEVERAL, but the title comes from Blue Lips by Regina Spektor-- that song has always reminded me of Ivan. I’ll include all the songs in the endnotes.
> 
> P.S.: for regular readers, I highly highly suggest taking a look at nppk’s art they post on tumblr and instagram! It’s so pretty and I adore their work.
> 
> Special thanks to my friends Brianna and Keiko, and my volunteer editor, Shyanne, for proofreading this shit for me <3

_“Do you have a name?”_

_“Of course I do, it’s Russia.”_

_“No, asshat! Your name-name.”_

_“Name-name?”_

_“Yes! Like how my name-name is Alfred F. Jones-- don’t ask what the ‘F’ stands for.”_

_“...It is Ivan. Ivan Braginsky.”_

_“Aye-vin?”_

_“No, ee-vahn.”_

_“That doesn’t sound right.”_

_“It is.”_

_“Whatever you say, aye-vin.”_

_“What does the ‘F’ stand for?”_

_“Fuck you.”_

* * *

The silence was never something that Ivan found pleasant, or calming, or whatever the reason someone might have for liking it. To him, the silence was loud and obnoxious. To him, the silence was a warning of blue-purple fingers and shivers that rocks the strongest man to his core. To him, the silence was lonely. And now it hung over the house like a thick fog, crowding every narrow hallway and taking residence in the several abandoned rooms.

The quiet had a companion-- chill. The house itself was always a little colder than Ivan personally preferred, especially in the winter when bitter air crept through the thin walls; this was different. This was dead cold like a body might be after several hours of death. That was it, Ivan realized after months of living alone, the house was _dead_. He hated it, every bit of it. The faded dark green walls, shagged carpets, the wide creaky staircase that lead to the upstairs bedrooms and office; all of it was ugly. Ivan desperately wished he can go back and smack whoever thought of the design. 

Sometimes he wandered the halls, peeked into the rooms, and wished that he had let everyone have a little more creative freedom when it came to decoration. They all looked the same with their beige empty walls and thin beds covered in white sheets; it was painfully boring. 

It was a great regret, among other things, and with hindsight, he supposed that spirits, in general, would have been a lot more lively if perhaps Natalia was allowed to hang some of her drawings on the walls, rather than keep them stuffed in her dresser. Perhaps if he had let Eliza and Gilbert keep their old pictures from home up, they wouldn’t have sulked around as much. Unfortunately, though, it was too late now. Ivan was never fond of decor anyway-- it was _his_ house after all. 

But to say he didn’t miss the constant shuffle of other people moving from room to room, doing their various jobs, or wasting time away until their next one, would be a lie. Not them-- he never missed them-- only people. Or maybe the dead atmosphere they left behind was making him think crazy things.

Ignoring these thoughts, Ivan filled the empty air with music from his Walkman (a gift Alfred had given him earlier in the month, wordless and distant. “Early birthday gift, ya’ know how it goes,” was all the American said. Ivan didn’t open it until a full week later). Along with the music player itself, Alfred had given him several cassette tapes with various western musicians. It was painfully thoughtful, unpleasantly making Ivan’s chest ache, especially considering the… circumstances. The cassettes were some of Alfred’s favorites, he knew, which made it sting just a little more than it should have.

Ivan cleared a sudden itch in his throat and stretched the kinks in his back caused by slouching over papers for too long. Tracy Chapman’s guitar strummed softly from the box, dreams pouring through the lyrics. It was a nostalgic sound, Ivan decided, humming quietly along as his eyes glanced over the paperwork stacked on the desk. None of them made any sense at the moment, and he frankly didn’t care enough to give them the fifth look. 

One yellow envelope stuck out from the middle of the pile-- the same one that every nation got a week before the end of the month. Ivan glared at the envelope and briefly considered tossing it out the window, letting the December wind carry the invitation away. 

But that wasn’t an option, much to his dismay. Yanking the envelope out from its place, he opened it-- just a tad harsher than intended-- and began to read the neat script belonging to none other than Arthur Kirkland. 

_To the representative of the Russian Federation, Ivan Braginsky,_

_The representative of the United Kingdom, Arthur James Kirkland, would appreciate your attendance at the monthly world conference on December 31st, 1991. The conference will be held in London, England, usual building, and will begin at precisely 3:00 GMT._

_Please do be on time, we will not wait for you._

_On behalf of the United Nations,_

_England_

Despite the several invitations very similar to this one he’s received since 1945, this was the first time Ivan’s been referred to as _“the Russian Federation”_. It was strange, after having gone by something so entirely different for nearly 70 years. Ivan laughed numbly-- to think that just three days ago the invitation would have been addressed to the USSR.

 _That_ is what he dreaded the most at this meeting: the way he knows the other nations will act around him. This will be the first conference he attends as a representative of Russia and Russia alone, the first time in decades they’ve been forced to see him as something entirely new. 

Ivan ran his thumb over the ink, glaring at it like it had insulted him personally. The _last_ thing he wanted to do was attend the conference; the idea of facing his fellow nations-- facing _Alfred_ \-- makes him feel sick. What a shame it was, Ivan felt, that there wasn’t necessarily a choice. He scowled, crinkling the yellow paper in his fist before throwing it into the trash can by his desk.

* * *

_“Hey Ivan, come visit me for Christmas!”_

_“Why would I do that?”_

_“Uhh, because it’s pretty?”_

_“Pretty?”_

_“Yes! With all the lights and the snow and the trees, it’s just-- I love it.”_

_“We do not celebrate Christmas in Russia, not like you.”_

_“Who cares! Come celebrate with me, experience the pure supremacy of American Christmas. You can stay for New Years’! That’s a big deal, right?”_

_“Yes…”_

_“Then it’s settled! You can watch the ball drop with me, it’ll be great.”_

_“I am not sure if ‘superior’ would be the right word to describe your celebrations. Conspicuous, maybe, would work.”_

_“Ugh, I hate you. You ruin everything.”_

* * *

London was dull, sad, and cold. Ivan hated it, the gray of the clouds reminding him of young winters spent in the blistering wind; the only difference was that English winters were wetter. The people didn’t seem to care, though, all caught up in their post-holiday cheer and snug jumpers to pay mind to much at all. Every December, Christmas oozed into the daily lives of most nations, and even those who didn’t particularly celebrate it could feel the effects of it. 

Ivan observed the colorful lights that decorated apartment buildings as the taxi mulled through London traffic. For some reason, he couldn’t imagine why people want to leave their decorations up days after the holiday. The flowery wreaths and red tinsel did nothing to balance out the passionless face that the city tended to carry every time he visited.

A car honked from behind the taxi, snapping Ivan out of his reverie and making the cabbie grumble underneath his breath.

“Sorry for this damned traffic, sir, holidays ain’t a good time to be driving ‘round. People be inna rush to get home, as ya’ probably know,” said the driver in a thick, quite silly, accent. Ivan glanced at the clock sitting on the dashboard-- 2:18. 

“I can see that,” Ivan replied. The driver raised a bushy eyebrow at him through the rearview mirror, then set his eyes back at the road. Thankfully, the conversation ended at that.

Ivan sighed and laid his head back on the leather seat, closing his eyes in an attempt to quell the nervous rolling of his stomach-- briefcase held tightly on his lap. They couldn’t have been from the meeting building now, only ten minutes at most, but Ivan would still be one of the last to arrive-- he hates being late. He hates when _others_ are late. He can see it now: almost every nation sitting around the conference table and preparing their notes and pens, Italy almost surely being the last one to arrive in a dramatic burst of opening doors and apologizing without sounding sorry at all. He sees Alfred sitting next to the other past allies-- chair across from Ivan’s and next to France’s-- and glancing an empty look in the Russian’s direction.

Unless Ivan can get there first.

“Excuse me,” he said, leaning up against the cabbie’s seat. “Stop here, please. I can walk.” 

The man’s eyebrows scrunched together, offended. “Now, sir! I’m going as fast as I can, there ain’t a need to--”

“Stop the taxi,” Ivan grit out between closed teeth. The cabbie clamped his mouth shut and nodded once. The doors _clicked_ , Ivan gripped the briefcase handle before pushing the door open, and freezing damp air nips at his cheeks. 

_Fuck._

+++

By the time Ivan made it inside, it was 2:43-- not perfect timing, but, better than what it would have been. He sighed, pulling his white scarf up closer to his mouth and looking for the elevator that should be around here- there. How the people who redesigned this old building managed to put an elevator in the center of it was a mystery, but a blessing nonetheless. Ivan hates stairs. 

A soft _ting_ accompanied the sliding elevator doors, and Ivan stepped in. The ugly yellow lights are flickering and it hurt his eyes; the irritated mood he was already in flickered a little brighter. He _didn’t_ want to be there-- in fact, he would have rather been anywhere else. He didn’t want to see England, he didn’t want to see China (god forbid), he didn’t want to see Italy or Japan or Canada-- _Alfred_. He wanted to go home and tackle the stack of papers that are still on his desk, or at least pretend that he is. Being a nation was boring sometimes.

The doors _ting_ again; Ivan realized he didn’t notice them closing or the floor lurching up as the elevator moved. The nerves slammed into his stomach full force, but he ignored them, pushing them down as far as they can go. 

_It is just a meeting_ , he tells himself. _I have been to one before, this is ridiculous_. 

Stepping into an empty hallway, he heard a soft chatter coming from a set of double doors on his right-- the meeting room. By the sound of it, several nations were already in there and participating in the usual busy conversations that take place before every meeting. 

Ivan clutched the handle of his briefcase, then put it down so he could unbutton the heavy gray coat that had protected him from the outside chill. It was warm in here, too warm, and he did not like being hot.

_“Your cheeks turn pink when you’re warm, ‘ya know. It’s cute.”_

_  
_ _Ivan quickly closed his eyes and inhaled deeply._

_  
“Do not call me that.”_

He shook his head, as though the movement will scare away the coil wound in his chest, and takes the coat off. Folding it over his other arm, he picked up his briefcase and mindlessly walked through the doors. 

There’s a slight pause in conversation as everyone looks over to see who has come into the room, and immediately a wave of tension floods through the crowded space. Ivan ignored the anxious glances and walked to his seat, laying the briefcase down on the table and letting the lull in conversation stop. The nations continued talking, each with their usual group-- it reminded Ivan of American school films, with their cliques and all. 

It took the nation a moment to realize that, in front of him, Alfred’s seat was empty. He exhaled a sigh of relief- he made it. The watch showed that it was 2:51. He frowned and cleared a scratch in his throat, mentally telling himself to not rely on London public transport the next time England hosts a meeting.

An obnoxious, loud thud once again paused all conversation happening in the room. Ivan-- along with every other nation-- looked at the door and saw Alfred. The American, with all his animated glory, was grinning. And, it hit Ivan then, that a part of his brain he had ignored for nearly a decade missed that grin.

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “Sorry guys didn’t mean to interrupt!” he says.

Ivan saw Germany’s lips form into a tight line, and Italy next to him smiled a bit to himself. After a moment everyone seemed to silently agree to ignore Alfred’s distasteful entrance and take their respective seats.

2:58, Ivan’s watch glared at him, and he glared back at it-- pretending that he didn’t see Alfred hesitate to pull his chair back and sit down. Now, this, this part was routine-- had been for the past ten years or so.

They didn’t acknowledge each other; they didn’t shake hands or politely nod. They just sat, avoided eye contact, and waited. Every meeting, every social gathering that they both happened to be at, every moment that they’re in the same space they pretended they weren’t -- and it hurt.

_“It didn’t have to be this way, ‘ya know. We could’ve worked it out.”_

_“No, you know just as well as I do that that is a lie.”_

_  
“I know...”_

Ivan spent the rest of the meeting mindlessly listening to England’s, well, whatever it was the Brit was saying. He listened to each nation’s latest news reports, of what was happening in their country and what other nations could expect from it. He listened to the whispered side conversations, and the heavy breathing of France trying not to fall asleep beside him. England would have raged if he saw France dozing.

The silence was never something that Ivan found pleasant, or calming, or whatever the reason someone might have for liking it. That’s why, despite the awkwardness and uneasiness, Ivan liked the meetings. He liked them because there are people, and noise-- _sound_. He liked the sound, always had, and forever ago Ivan realized that it was why he liked Alfred.

And speaking of the devil, it was the American nation’s turn to speak.

“Uh-- as you may have realized, several days ago-- on Christmas, weirdly enough--” Alfred laughed awkwardly and ran a hand through his hair again; which was a habit of his that Ivan only noticed a few years prior. “The United States formally recognized the Russian Federation.”

Ivan’s breath hitched. He remembered that being told the news by his boss and later reading it in the papers.

“I- I just wanted to do it here as well, since the dates lined up a little _too_ nicely,” Alfred glared at England, who seemed to be focused on messing with one of his small stud earrings. “So,” and for the first time in what felt like forever, Alfred looked at Ivan; his eyes were study and emotionless. “I, as representative of the United States, formally recognize and welcome the new Russian Federation-- Russia. Good to have you back, dude.” 

That last part was so painfully _Alfred_ , throwing slang in something that wasn’t personal in the slightest but _felt_ like it.

Ivan knew that after that with that impersonally personal sentence came the end to an era, of sorts. Everybody knew what it meant; it meant that there’s no more threat, no more paranoia-- there was no way they didn’t. Alfred saying that, and doing it in front of essentially the entire world, lifted such a heavy weight off of the shoulders of every nation in the room. 

Ivan examined Alfred’s face and nodded, letting the same emotionless glimmer taking over his features.

Alfred’s lips tightened. “Yeah, that’s- that’s all. Thank you,” and with that, he sits down. Ivan didn’t pay attention to the rest of the meeting, choosing instead to stare at the nation across from him.

It must have been several hours later before England announced that everyone was dismissed-- the Russian didn’t notice a single minute pass by. He got lost in thoughts, and memories of soft touches and blazing arguments that lasted for days-- memories he buried in those ten years. And those memories followed him, trailing behind like an ugly slug and making the empty pit he felt swallow him farther and farther. They followed him down the short hallway and into the elevator.

Alfred stared at him from inside with his hand awkwardly held out to keep the door from closing automatically. It was a few moments before Ivan finally took a step inside. Alfred let the doors close.

It must have been a minute or two before either of them said anything.

“I didn’t want to, ‘ya know,” the younger nation said quietly. Ivan felt his chest expand. “They told me to do it.”

After a few seconds of silence, Ivan responded. “I figured as much.”

“Well, you don’t sound too happy,” the other snorted, but there wasn’t any amusement behind it. 

“Why should I be?”

Alfred rolled his eyes, a petty and dramatic thing that reminds Ivan of far too many lighthearted quarrels and playful teasing. “It’s over, this whole... _Cold War_ thing. Your shitty ass government’s been replaced; I recognized you as a legit country-- _again_.”

“Are you expecting a thank you?” Ivan took a deep breath and fought the urge to cough.

Alfred hummed. “Now that you mention it, that would be nice. Didn’t really get too many of those before, ‘ya know.”

Ivan squinted his eyes. It ached, the way that he knew Alfred was _right_ ; Ivan was never good at “Thank you” or “I’m sorry's." “You-” he cut off, unable to find words. His throat was now _burning_.

“Consider it a Christmas gift, to go along with that walkman I gave you,” Alfred said and looks away from Ivan and at the elevator doors. “A way to make amends, if you wanna look at it that way. I’m kinda tired of all this anyway.”

Ivan swallows. “Me too.”

The doors opened, and Alfred walked out without another word, leaving Ivan’s head cloudy and vision oddly blurry. His stomach was in knots and his chest felt like it was closing in on itself.

He didn’t notice the doors closing and moving back up the floors, as a loud, shuddering wheeze crawled its way out of his throat. Ivan coughed thickly, his lungs constricted and he couldn’t _breathe_. Doubling over he squinted his eyes, tears stinging in the corners of them, and covered his mouth with his hand-- coughing, wheezing, shuddering. 

Then, it was over. Ivan could breathe again; a large gasp of air refilled his lungs and soothed the flames in his throat. He peers down into his hand; his stomach sank.

A blue daisy sat in his palm, slick and shiny with saliva, but still fully bloomed and beautiful.

* * *

_“Hey Ivan, what’s your favorite flower?”_

_  
_ _“What?”_

_“You heard me! What’s your favorite flower?”_

_“Uh-- sunflowers.”_

_“Those are pretty, I like them. A bit big though if you ask me.”_

_“What is yours?”_

_“Mine?”_

_“You heard me.”_

_“Daisies.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Cherry - Astronaut - Amanda Palmer, Blue Lips - Regina Spektor, Harry Styles, Dancing With Your Ghost - Sasha Sloan, Flicker - Nial Horton, Ghost of You - 5 Seconds of Summer, i love you - Billie Eilish, Love Song - Lana Del Rey, The Next Best American Record - Lana Del Rey, The Night We Met - Lord Huron, Six Feet Under - Billie Eilish, Two Ghosts - Harry Styles, War of Hearts (Acoustic) - Ruelle, White Blank Page Mumford & Sons, Rat - Penelope Scott


End file.
